Revenant Rising (54 page)
“I have my own invitation, thank you.” Amanda doesn’t look all that startled, so he can’t be terribly out of context.
“Does that mean you already have a date?”
For whatever reason, this question gives her pause. She appears to be weighing possible responses the way she did throughout their subtle jockeying for position over lunch at the Sea Grill last week. One thing he doesn’t need right now is another reminder that she’s nowhere near the mindless bit of fluff he first took her for and that her loyalties, wherever they happen to lie, are unswerving.
“You don’t owe me anything, you know. I haven’t provided you with any information you couldn’t have obtained elsewhere,” she says. “And I observe client privilege same as my boss, I won’t tell anyone what you’ve said to me today.”
“For Chrissake, Amanda, I am
not
attempting to reward you. Or bribe you, just so that’s clear. Can’t you just agree to spend an evening with me?”
“I’ll have to think about it. I’ll have to let you know. Later.” She busies herself rewinding the tape and gathering up her other exhibits.
“Please do.” He’s out of practice for this kind of shit. “Today if possible.” This is too much like asking the head cheerleader to the prom and being left on hold while she entertains other offers. “I’ll be at home,” he says and leaves Amanda a number she’s probably already acquired on her own initiative.
Wrapped in a thick Philippe Hotel robe, Laurel finishes up in the bathroom by applying an extra skim of foundation to the shadows under her eyes and extra color to her cheeks and she still looks like she was up all night. In the bedroom, she slips out of the robe and into unexceptional underwear and pantyhose. From her limited wardrobe, she chooses an outfit at random; one’s pretty much the same as another.
She’s selecting sensible pumps to complement a spinsterly suit and blouse when she realizes she’s brought nothing special enough for tomorrow night’s party at Tavern on the Green. She frowns at the oversight and the prospect of returning home for something appropriate. The prospect of shopping for something new holds little appeal until she remembers her paid-up dues and the rainy-day cash in her carryall. That puts a different face on the oversight and buoys her on her way.
If she’s recognizable to anyone in the hotel lobby, they’re either too professional or too sophisticated to show it. The same holds true on the sidewalk outside the hotel when she sets off on foot for Rockefeller Center. Shunning Fifth Avenue, she cuts across 59
th
on the park side, where she observes that the media gypsies have abandoned their stronghold adjacent the Pulitzer Fountain. She might be amused by this example of how fast a story can lose its newsworthiness if she weren’t mindful of how fast a minor event can be inflated into a cause célèbre. She turns south on Sixth and covers the remaining distance to her office hyper-alert for minor events.
At the office, a stranger—presumably an intern—is seated at Amanda’s desk fielding phone calls. Mid-answering spiel the intern points at the closed door to the inner office—presumably to indicate someone is inside—then holds a finger to her lips to indicate that person should not be disturbed.
David again. Proprietary of office space and her again. Overseeing and after-the-fact mentoring again. Pimping again, if that’s what it turns out to be.
The inner door opens onto near darkness. The blinds are closed, the drapes are drawn, and the only light is that leaking in from the reception area. Not David’s style at all. Could be Colin’s, though. Especially after an all-nighter.
She switches on the overheads, prepared to let him know he’s no more entitled to squatter’s rights than David, and it turns out to be Amanda who’s camped out on the sofa—stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, with the back of one hand pressed to her forehead in a pose synonymous with Victorian fainting couches.
“What’s wrong? Are you ill?” Laurel says.
“No. I’m all right . . . I will be in a minute.” Amanda squints, sits up, and attempts to smooth first her hair, then her dress.
“What’s happened? Don’t tell me something
else
has happened.”
“The only thing that’s happened is Nate Isaacs.”
“
He
sent you into a swoon?” Laurel sets down her bag and takes a seat on the arm of the sofa. “What did he do, attempt to interrogate you when he called to confirm my dinner meeting with him tonight?”
“He was
here.
He came here to your office and I never did find out if he was looking for you or expecting to find Colin.”
“What did he want, then?”
“What he always wants—more than I’m willing to tell him. But I did tell him everything that went on while he was away. I mean, someone had to.”
“Where was he while he was away?”
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Laurel sighs mounting impatience with the drama. “I suppose he badgered you again and planted more suspicions the way he did during your initial go-round?”
“No, he didn’t have to badger me, and I have enough suspicions of my own.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing . . . never mind.”
“Very well. I don’t have time for intrigues, and I’d rather focus on what’s going on with you. Do you realize you’re so pale I can count your freckles?”
“You should talk. Like I can’t see the dark circles under your extra makeup.”
“Touché.”
“Okay, okay, you’ll find out sooner or later, so here’s the problem. I got through another Nate Isaacs ordeal without stuttering or peeing my pants, but when it was over, he asked me to be his date at the party for Rayce Vaughn and I couldn’t give him an answer.”
“Why on earth is that a problem? Because you still think he’s trying to undermine your loyalties?”
“Yes, but I can handle that part, I just proved I can. What I can’t handle is not having the right clothes or the right address. I mean, can you just see him picking me up in Flatbush, for lord’s sake, and me decked out in an old bridesmaid dress or worse?”
Laurel laughs. Not unkindly. “If that’s all that’s bothering you . . . Listen, I have to shop for a dress this afternoon. Come along and we’ll find one for you, too. And have Nate call for you at my hotel. In fact, stay with me tomorrow night. You’ll be doing me a favor. I’d love to be able to say I already have a roommate if someone should happen to volunteer for the position.”
“Wait a minute. I’m not sure I want to put myself in destiny’s way.”
Laurel heaves another sigh, “So now it’s
destiny
I’m fighting off? Dammit, Amanda, how many times have I told you to stop matchmaking?”
“That’s easy. The same number of times I’ve told you you’ve got no less than
the
Colin Elliot wrapped around your little finger and you’re too pigheaded to see it.”
“Oh
please.
You’re starting to believe those tabloids you collect.”
“Am not. I don’t need a tabloid to tell me what’s plain as day.”
“Very well. Let’s get this over with. Right now. I am not so pigheaded I don’t see Colin Elliot’s interest in me. But what I see—and you fail to see—is that his interest won’t last beyond my ability to resist him.”
“There! I knew it! You
are
attracted to him.”
“Of course I am. Did I ever disagree when you proclaimed him a heart-throb or premium-grade hunk or whatever current expression you used? Have I ever pretended there’s not a great deal more to him than expected? Or denied what a really fine person he is?”
Amanda skips the chance to issue an ‘I-told-you-so,’ and keeps smugness to a minimum when asking by what supposition it’s presumed that Colin Elliot operates on a catch-and-release basis.
“Any discussion of that subject is moot. You already know I cannot and will not become romantically involved with him for the reason Nate Isaacs projected at the outset.”
“You mean because of professional concerns.”
“That’s a good-enough description. Yes, that’s all that needs to be said. Because of professional concerns.”
“But you’d love to. Get involved, I mean. I was watching you last night when you took charge of establishing his alibi, and that wasn’t just lawyerly consideration I was looking at, it went way beyond that.”
“All right, then. Of
course
I’d love to get involved with him. And when nothing came of it, I’d have to get over him and that is
not
something I’m willing to put myself through. I can’t do that again. I’ve never really subscribed to that old saw—‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’ I just can’t buy that crap.”
“What crap can’t you buy?” Colin bursts into the room, closely followed by the flustered intern.
Laurel springs to her feet, assures the intern she’s breeched no protocol by letting an intruder get past her, and instructs the girl to remain on duty for the rest of the day. Laurel then targets the intruder, who is by now kissing a blushing Amanda on both cheeks and playfully tousling her hair. He’s dressed in jeans, a wrongside-out sweatshirt, and a battered baseball cap. His hair is gathered into a slapdash ponytail, some of which protrudes from the back of the cap. His running shoes have seen better days and are trailing their laces. The outlandishly oversized black wraparound sunglasses he’s removing look more like the property of a recent cataract-surgery patient than someone in close touch with the haute monde. Registering disapproval is not a remote possibility because he’d only look better to her if he were naked.
“You’re supposed to be catching up on sleep.” Laurel steps behind her desk rather than risk a replay of last night’s awkwardness.
“Fat chance of that with all the commotion going on.”
“What commotion? Are the paparazzi back?”
“Wait a minute. My turn. I was askin’ what it is that you can’t buy. When I barged in here, I heard you sayin’ there was some sort of crap you just can’t buy. Were you talking about a belief or a product?”
Amanda, who also sprang to her feet when he surprised them, has positioned herself behind a client chair, where she appears only too willing to respond. The warning look Laurel shoots at her lands without effect.
“She was talking about a belief—Laurel doesn’t believe it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” Amanda spouts.
“Thanks, sweet pea, I’ll keep that in mind.” Colin winks at Amanda, who radiates impudence.
Laurel would like to swat them both. Instead, she reaches into her carryall, produces a small tape cassette that she tosses onto the desk. “Start transcribing that,” she instructs Amanda. “Colin and I are going to a conference room where he can tell me—minus kibitzing—what’s brought him here today.” Laurel leads the way through the reception area.
“Rock on!” Amanda calls after them.